


shotgun sinners

by gottabewhatomorrowneeds



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Blood and Violence, Gen, Post-SING (Music Video), Temporary Character Death, mostly others are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25661293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gottabewhatomorrowneeds/pseuds/gottabewhatomorrowneeds
Summary: Party Poison survives the battle within Battery City for the Girl.What have you become when they take from you almost everything?
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	shotgun sinners

There’s a weird crook in their neck when they wake up.

They roll their neck, registering the strange sensation in their neck first, like they managed to sleep on it wrong after a long car ride, having switched seats with Jet so they sould take a nap after driving for too many hours straight. It’s a familiar ache, so when they roll their neck and find their nerves flaring up with a white hot pain, they are, suffice to say, surprised. 

They blink a few times, trying to remember where they were.

Opening their eyes didn’t help in the slightest. It’s pitch black wherever the fuck they are, and Party Poison tries to sit up. However, after moving their head a few inches up, the top of their crown bangs against the roof of whatever room they’re in. Poison lets loose a couple of swears and tries to rub their head but smacks their head on the roof.

Christ, how fucking small is this room? Where are they, in a fucking coffin?

They feel around, trying to figure out where they are. Their memories feel oddly blurry, and they can’t find it in themself to try to bother remembering a time before they woke up …. Wherever this is. They know who they are, they know their name and the names of their friends and their crew, and that’s all they need to know to function.

Their foot hits a piece of metal that feels lighter than the rest of the walls around them. Weirdly enough, it feels like they are locked in a box, a bit too tight to be a coffin. They poke at the wall against their boots, wiggling a bit to get a solid feel on the lighter sheet of metal. 

After a small kick, the metal suddenly swings open. Light floods the black room, and Party Poison realises they aren’t in a room. It really is like they’ve been shoved in a box, like a sideways locker. They try to wriggle their way towards the light, and thats when the metal slab under them starts to roll out.

Poison slips out of the weird box they were in, practically falling out of the gurney they had been lying on. They blink a few times, trying to understand the scene around them.

The entire room was pure monochrome. The walls and floors were a blinding white, the lights were fluorescent and hot, and there were hundreds of little doors painted black that hung off the walls. The weird box Poison pushed themself out of had its door hanging wide open, and Poison realises that every door on the wall leads to a space like the one Poison was locked in.

It takes a few moments for everything to click, as they swish their head around and around at all the tiny black doors.

They’re in a morgue.

Holy fucking shit.

If they’re in a morgue, that means…

Did they die?

Poison pinches themself like in those stupid movies Show Pony always made them binge watch together. They definitely felt the prick on their skin, and they’re pretty sure being able to feel means they’re not dreaming and that they’re not dead. The dead can’t feel pain, right?

Poison sucks in a deep breath. Okay, context for this situation might help. Blurry memories better get ironed out soon.

Why are they in a morgue?

They tilt their head, staring at the little black door. Where is this place? Why is it so strangely familiar? 

The memories hit them like a blaster shot to the neck.

Poison stumbles a bit upon reflection, upon remembrance. They hit the wall, and surprisingly, without much noise. They hang on the side of the open door, trying to get their breathing in check, trying to stay calm. They can’t afford to let their emotions run wild and get them caught.

They were trying to save the Girl.

Right, right. She had been kidnapped during a firefight with Korse. Party Poison, Kobra Kid, Jet Star, and Fun Ghoul drove into Battery City to break into a BLi facility where they were keeping the Girl. Dracs had them surrounded on all sides, but they found the Girl, but then they got split up, and then Party Poison unmasked that Drac, and then Korse pushed them up against the wall-

Oh.

That’s why their neck ached so badly.

They had been shot.

But Korse’s gun was set to kill. Party Poison knows this because they had stared down that man, down the barrel of his gun and saw that stun was flicked off. Korse was aiming to kill them and by all accounts should have at such close range.

Party Poison should be dead. Why aren’t they dead?

Well, they’re not exactly complaining at not having been kissed by the Witch.

Poison moves away from the door and glances at the wall of bodies behind the wall of doors. Thousands of questions began to ring through their ears as they glanced around them. Was the Girl alright? Did she make it out? What happened after they were shot? Why are they alive? Where are their brothers?

Their brothers.

Poison spins on their heels. They begin to inspect the letters on the doors a bit more closely. There’s dry erase marker ink lettering each door. Most have two names, their killjoy name and their city name. Poison sees their city name on the door they just escaped from and erases it as quickly as they see it.

Okay.

They begin to walk around, glancing at each name carefully. It goes alphabetical by city name. Poison isn’t sure of anyone’s city name except for Kobra’s, so they make sure to keep their eyes peeled for the killjoy names. If Party Poison is here, it’s pretty probable their brothers are too.

The memories of sliding down the wall, of the aftermath of the shot to the neck ring in their head. Kobra’s screams and the hail of bullets that flew through the air afterwards haunts Poison’s head as they scan for names they recognise.

Suddenly, they find a mess of letters that resembles a name they know better than their own.

Jet Star.

They find Jet Star. 

Unlike all the other killjoys bodies in this morgue, his label only reads Jet Star. Poison muses that he doesn’t have a “real name” since he’s a desert born. It’s rather pleasing to realise BLi can’t fucking touch Jet Star’s identity, even after death.

It’s easy to open the door housing Jet. None of these things are locked, which explains why Poison was able to easily escape. BLi probably doesn’t expect people to steal from the corpses or to defile them, since everyone’s drugged into complacency. And they definitely don’t expect assholes like them to come back from the dead.

They yank the slab of metal Jet’s laying on out. Jet comes rolling out a bit too fast, and Poison almost feels bad. Still, Poison managed to find Jet Star, and that’s enough to keep them content at the moment. 

“Come on, Jet Star,” Poison whispers. They glance him over, watching. Jet’s eerily still, and it’s kind of freaking Poison out. He’s never that still, not even when he’s sleeping. Jet’s always moving- tapping his feet, tossing his hair out of the way, rubbing his nose, all sorts of small quirks Poison’s become accustomed to. Poison reaches out and shakes his shoulder, pushing him a bit. “Come on, Sleeping Beauty, wakey wakey.”

Jet doesn’t move. His skin is strangely cold. Now that Poison thinks about it, it is kind of frigid in this room. It’s like that first night they spent out in the desert with nothing but the clothes on their back and the moon to guide them. They didn’t know it got so cold during the night.

Poison sighs and pulls their jacket tighter to their body. They glance around a bit, deciding to search for more of their friends. If Jet won’t wake up, that’s fine. They’ll bother someone else.

It takes a bit of searching, but they find their second missing friend.

Fun Ghoul has a name under his killjoy name. Poison tries not to look at it as they open up the box. 

Ghoul is, well, ghoulishly pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. Where Jet Star seems a bit purple, Ghoul is almost as white as the walls. Poison stares at his still form, frowning.

“Come on, Ghoulie,” Poison tries, pushing at his shoulder. “I know you like your naps, you fucking black cat, but we’ve got things to do. Wake up.”

Ghoul doesn’t move a muscle.

Poison moves back to Jet, just a few feet away. Poison shakes him, hard, trying to get him to wake up. “Christ, are you guys in a fucking coma? Wake up, sluts.”

Jet still doesn’t stir. Poison moves back to Ghoul and rolls up their sleeve. After a moment’s pause to think, they go through with a slap to Ghoul’s face. There’s a hollow sound of flesh meeting flesh, and christ, Ghoul’s skin is so fucking cold.

Poison moves back to Jet. “Wake up. Wake up!”

Poison shakes him even harder. Jet’s limp under their grasp, and Poison can feel tears pooling in their eyes. No, no. If Poison survived, they must have, too. No, this might be a morgue, but no, it’s different. No.

Poison drops their fingers from his shoulder to his neck. No.

They grab his wrist, then drop it. No.

They place their head against their chest, waiting to feel the rise and fall of his lungs, waiting to hear his steady heartbeat. No, no, no.

Their friends are dead. They are _dead_.

There is no pulse thrumming in their wrists. There’s no soft breath whistling out of their nose. There’s no gentle rise and fall of their chest. There’s no hammering heart beat pounding away inside their ribcage. There’s no warmth to their stiff limbs, and Poison realises the cold, hard truth as they stare at these two bodies, bruised and purple.

They’re the only survivor.

Poison stumbles away from Jet Star. They still try to see if Ghoul has any breath of proof that he’s alive, but in their heart, they know the truth.

They’re the only survivor.

They slink to the ground next to the two bodies. Bodies, Christ, they’re fucking bodies now. 

Dead.

Gone.

Ghosted.

How the hell did Party Poison survive and not them? Why the fuck are they still here? What’s the point of a world where Jet Star can’t sing along to the rock station that always plays while Poison drives at breakneck speeds down Route Guano? What’s the point of a world where they can’t hear Ghoul’s manic laughter while Poison and him test out the range of a new bomb? What’s the fucking point?

A few tears slip down their face. They need to keep it together, in case they end up not as alone as they think they are. But god damn, their friends are dead, their best friends in this entire god damned fucking world. The only people who kept Party Poison alive, the only people who tied them down, who kept them from going off the deep end, who kept them fighting because they were reason enough to start an entire revolution for. They were the lighter that lit the candle Poison’s core burns from. They were their detonator.

Poison rubs their face and stuffs their hands in the pockets of their jackets as they sit on the cold floor of a fucking morgue, right in between their two fucking friends.

Suddenly, their fingers start to wrap around something cold. 

Taking the momentary distraction, Poison pulls out what was in their pocket.

It’s a knife, the first gift they ever got out in the zones, given to them by Newsagogo. She’s the one who found them by the side of that road when they first escaped, when they were literal roadkill.

Poison grips it tight, and then suddenly, they realise what this means.

They realise that BLi hasn’t searched their body for weapons yet. After all, people don’t come back from the dead without their explicit permission. There’s not a point in getting rid of weapons so soon after a firefight.

So Party Poison still has that box of matches in their pocket.

Poison digs through their pants for the match box. It doesn’t take long to find, and Poison is holding a crumpled, beaten up box of matches they stole from Tommy’s earlier that week. They wanted to light some (homemade) candles for Jet Star’s twentieth birthday the week after the Girl got kidnapped.

Fuck.

No, Poison can’t dwell on these memories. Poison needs to get moving, needs to get their blood pumping. They can’t get lost in the past. They have a promise to fulfill.

( _“Promise me.” Ghoul’s voice is quiet. Jet Star’s face is shadowed by the flickering flames of the vampire. Kobra Kid holds on to a sleeping Girl, the fire reflected in his shades._

_“Anything.” It’s the truth._

_“If something happens, you’ll burn my body. I don’t want BLi’s hands touching me after I bite the dust.”_

_“I won’t happen,” Kobra argues._

_“But if it does,” Jet smoothly whispers back. “We will. We all will, for any of us.”_

_Poison watches Ghoul in that moment, the way the fire reflects from his hair, the motor oil stains gleaming in the flickering light. They watch Jet Star, the way a lighting bug got caught in his hair, the way he’s tapping his foot. They watch Kobra Kid, the way he’s cradling the Girl like she’s the only thing that matters._

_“I promise.”_ )

There’s not a conscious thought in their head at that moment. They light a match, striking it so hard the stem nearly snaps in half. A bright blaze becomes the only sense of true light and colour in that room, and Poison watches the fire slowly consume the stem.

Silently, they set the match on Jet’s jean shirt. It takes a couple of tries for it to catch, but it does. A small fire begins to burn on Jet’s chest, and Poison begins to start a new one on Ghoul.

Fires burst about, and their bodies are slowly becoming engulfed. Poison shoves them back into the boxes they pulled them out from, trying to stop so much smoke from escaping. They crack the door to keep air flow, and they watch between the cracks as the light becomes brighter and brighter, as their friends begin to become the ash under their feet.

They tear their gaze away from their bodies. There’s someone else they have to find.

Kobra Kid.

They walk around the morgue once, twice, three times. They scan every single door, desperately searching for Kobra Kid and his old, no longer fitting city name that got tossed out like his old dresses. They search that room, over and over, for Kobra’s little box, but they can’t fucking find it.

They can’t fucking find their brother. Maybe, maybe- he survived? He survived and escaped? 

No, Killjoys can’t only live on hope. It’s foolish to believe in something so unrealistic. No, Poison remembers Kobra’s animalistic screams when Poison was shot, and remembers the frantic sounds of too quick gunshots as they slid down the wall. Kobra was going to make sure he went down with them.

No, they have to fucking find that body box. They have to find him. He’s here.

The crunch of footsteps. The wrinkling of cloth. The soft huffs of breaths. The whoosh of movement.

Poison’s knife is barred before Poison even realises who they’re about to attack.

There’s a Drac in front of them. Security detail, most likely, probably spending their shift here, making sure everything’s all in order before moving on to the next room. The Drac has a blaster aimed straight at Poison’s heart, and Poison gives it a quirked, hollowpoint smile. Dracs can’t feel much. But the blaster is shaking ever so slightly, and that does make something warm in Poison blossom.

Poison should be dead. Dead people don’t come back to life. Poison can only imagine how much fear would be coursing through the body of someone who can feel properly.

Poison laughs. “Aw, surprised to see me alive? Me too.”

The guard is staring at them strangely. Poison can’t see its eyes, but the way it cocks its head is all Poison needs to know that something didn’t register.

“I guess killjoys never really die,” They add, hesitantly. The quips that usually come quick and easy feel halted and strange. The Drac is still watching them, silently, and Poison swallows, realizing that they didn’t hear a single syllable of the sentence they spoke.

The security guard should be shooting them in this moment, when their guard’s been lowered at the realisation that they can’t make a single sound. But the guard is too shaken by the fact one of the bodies in that godforsaken morgue is fucking moving, is no longer a fucking corpse.

Poison should be using it’s fear against it. But Poison’s too wrapped up in the fact that they didn’t hear a single syllable of their own voice. A hand reaches up to their neck, and they touch it tenderly during the odd standoff, feeling the dried blood flake away under their fingers.

They try again, their lips and tongue moving, but not a word passes through their teeth. Their throat feels all kinds of fucked up, their vocal cords not vibrating like they should. They didn’t notice when they were trying to wake up Ghoul and Jet because they were too wrapped up in trying to prove to themself that they weren’t dead.

Poison keeps their fingers on their neck. They glance back at the Drac, who’s slowly reaching for it’s radio.

Something black furls within Poison, and they’re not afraid to admit that a rage is coursing through their veins, something hot and ugly. There’s just so many fucking emotions going through their mind, so many things they have to digest. Everyone they love is dead. The Girl’s whereabouts are unknown, so this mission might have been for nothing. Kobra Kid is missing. Poison survived. Poison can’t fucking speak.

No, Poison needs their fucking voice.

They try to scream when they jump on the Drac. They try to curse it out while they stab it in the chest, they try to yell while they yank off the mask, they try to sob while they slice it’s throat.

The Drac is dead, gone, ghosted, long after Poison’s done turning it into a pin cushion. Poison wipes off the blood from their hands on their jacket and grips the kife tightly. Everything in them feels tight, like a string about to fucking snap from being kept taut for far too long.

Poison needs to leave. Right the fuck now before they mutilate someone else, before they do something very, very stupid.

There’s bound to be a second security guard to show up, or a few other concerned Dracs wondering why this bitch didn’t show up to the next place it was supposed to search through. Poison eyes the body for a few moments before unbuttoning it’s shirt.

Poison steals its clothes, yanking it up and over their head. They slip on the pants but ignore the boots. They’ve been wearing Drac boots since they were twelve. 

Poison slips on the mask in their pocket. It’s yellow and it reminds them of who they are, who they have to be. Party Poison. The leader of the Fabulous Killjoys. The sibling to Jet Star and Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul and the Girl.

It’s funny. Dr. D always tells them to die with their mask on. But Poison and all their brothers didn’t. Why hide yourself in your last moments? Why waste your breaths on a lie?

( _Poison stares down Korse. Korse smiles at them, sharp teeth gleaming in the red lights that swathes them like a cloth holding a child on a mother’s back. Poison doesn’t have their mask on._

 _Poison gazes back. Not a word is uttered from their lips. Not a single quip._ )

Once they’re finished adjusting the outfit to properly fit them, they reach for the Drac mask they discarded all that time ago. They take a glup before slipping the wretched thing over their face.

Drac masks steal souls, yes. There’s no doubt about the horrors they do to the human psyche, how they shred a person into shreds, decomposing them from the inside out. They steal souls and even BLi doesn’t know where they go.

But if you wear your mask underneath the Drac mask, it counteracts the soul rotting qualities. Without a mask, your soul has no anchor, and the Drac mask exploits that and turns itself into the anchor. But if your soul is grounded, the Drac mask can’t steal it from you.

That’s how Poison figures it works, anyway. They don’t understand much about the soul, not like Cherri. They just know that it works from that one time Korse tried to Drac them out on Route Guano.

So Poison slips on the mask, ignoring the awful goosebumps forming on their skin. They shove the gun the Drac had been holding in their holster and they begin to make their way out of the morgue.

It’s not hard, really. Impersonating a Drac isn’t hard when you’ve spent enough time as one. You fall into this mindless rhythm as you move, keeping alert to your surroundings. No one seems to pay you much mind- you walk with confidence and people won’t question you.

Suddenly, alarms begin to blare.

“There’s an intruder on the loose,” a voice drones. “Party Poison has escaped capture. Be on high alert. They are armed. Information is coming.”

Shit, shit.

Poison begins to move faster through the sea of white around them. They keep their arms crossed over the blood stains from when they stabbed the Drac. Inwardly, they scoff a bit at the fact that BLi lists them as a prisoner when they were supposed to be dead. They suppose they don’t want people to panic over the dead coming back to life _without_ their permission.

“Head to the west wing,” someone commands.

The voice chills Poison’s spine. Their blood freezes and they nearly stop walking mid-step at the sound. It’s like razers digging in their skin, the sound of the clutch of their car slipping out of gear, the feeling of sweat dripping in their eyes.

They glance back at the speaker.

Korse stands before them in this narrow hallway, commanding the Dracs into moving the opposite of where Poison was moving.

The ice begins to thaw. The cold chill down their spine ceases.

No.

What Poison feels now is a bright, white hot inferno blazing within their chest.

“You,” they whisper.

It doesn’t make a single sound, their voice unheard in the alarms blaring. Poison’s fingers twitch towards their gun. They have the opportunity to strike Korse off guard, to go down in a satisfying blaze of glory, to join Jet and Ghoul and likely Kobra. They survived, and they can make sure their new found time is used to get revenge.

Korse killed them. He probably killed all their friends, too. What’s the saying… an eye for an eye?

Korse stole everything from them. He stole the Girl, he stole their friends, he stole their fucking voice. He stoles more than their eye, he stole pieces of Poison’s soul.

Poison’s brimming with an unbridled rage. They’ve felt a lot of anger in their time in the desert, always bound to violent bouts. And their violent delights always had violents ends. Poison isn’t perfect, isnt unstained and unblemished, and they’ve hurt a lot of people.

But Poison knows in this moment as they head straight for Korse that this time is different. This is warranted, this is a revenge that must be enacted simply because it is within their right. Korse has taken everything he can from them and Poison is going to steal the only thing Korse has left and they will forge a warpath as bloody as necessary to find their way to their goal.

They switch the setting on their gun to kill. Other Dracs are pulling out their guns so it doesn't look suspicious. They’re within range.

They raise their gun and fire. Laser blasts fry the still air and scorch cloth. The shots echo in the small hallway, reverberating right in Poison’sears. They hear nothing but the echoes and the sounds of their blood rushing to their head.

A Drac steps right in between Korse and Poison to its own misfortune. It crumpled to the ground and all eyes are turned onto Poison.

For a breath of a moment, it’s complete still. Sirens are wailing and alarms are screaming and yet this is one of the most quiet moments of Poison’s life.

( _Alarms are blaring. Electricity buzzes. Blasters hum. Glass shatters._

_There’s a thousand sounds in that moment. The footsteps of BLi’s foot soldiers. The grunts of Poison’s brothers. The quiet sniffles of the Girl. The sounds of bodies striking the floor._

_Poison can’t hear any of it but the stuttering beat of their heart as they’re pushed against the wall, as the barrel of Korse’s gun burns the side of their neck._ )

Poison whips off the Drac mask. This spurs action within the Dracs surrounding them, and shots are fired within the halls. Walls are becoming painted in scorch marks. Ashes line the marbled floors under their feet like rose petals.

( _Jet Star and Ghoul burn. Their ashes flicker to the floor as their fires crackle and their skin flakes over, turning to char._

 _A fire unfurls within their soul._ )

“Am I seeing ghosts?” Korse croons. He stays away from the fight, watching his minions attack Poison with all they’ve got. Although the ratio of killjoy to Dracs are pretty terrible (1:13), it’s a pretty even fight. Drags can’t fight for shit since they can’t think for shit, so Poison is barrelling through every single Drac without breaking a sweat.

They fight a bit more viciously than usual. A lot more blood spills onto the pristine tiles, gallons of the stuff, creating puddles like the acid rain pools that form after a bad storm.

Poison needs to run. They survived, they survived, and they need to make use of the time they have. Their blood is boiling over and this white hot rage won’t cool off, but even despite the deep fury within their soul, they know they need to turn tail and flee. The door to their escape isn’t so far off. They need to move.

Poison fires a few rounds at Korse’s head and begins to sprint as fast as they can out of that wretched hallway. They move past the bodies of Dracs, killing as many as they can while trying to find their escape route. They remember these hallways, studied them while trying to find the Girl, studied them during their time as a Drac. They know the way out better than they know the way home.

There’s a door two hallways away. The swarm of Dracs had been informed to move to the west wing, the opposite direction Poison was sprinting too. Poison might have a shot at escape if they can keep them self from blowing up, from giving up, from doing something absolutely stupid.

Shots lick their skin as they run. They do a small spin and fire away, striking a handful of Dracs while they are turned around. They keep moving towards the door, now within their reach. Poison will escape, or they will die trying, and they don’t give a damn which option comes true.

They wrench the door open with ease, busting the lock with a sharp blast of their ghoster. Draps attempt to follow after them but the slam the door shut before sprinting. There’s a motorcycle parked by a couple of BLi vans. The vans will give them more protection, but the bikes have speed, so Poison makes a snap decision over which direction to run too.

“Party Poison is on the east wing, headed toward the vehicle garage!” A voice monotonously informs. Poison curses at the information now given out like candy to trick or treaters and tries to move faster.

There’s a few Dracs already there, trying to wash the cars as best they can. They’re struggling to grab their guns in time to shoot at the sight of Poison heading straight towards them, and Poison’s trigger finger moves much quicker than theirs. By the time they get their guns out of the holster, Poison’s shooting rounds into their stomach, and they’re falling to the ground in a smouldering heap.

They slip onto a motorbike. Kobra taught them how to ride one eons ago, in case something happens while he’s on the crash tracks. Poison knows how to hotwire these bitches and begins to work as fast as they can. It isn’t the first time they’ve hotwired a vehicle, and they hope it won’t be their last.

The engine roars to life just as a smattering of gun shots fly straight towards them. They play with the engine for a moment, roaring it as loud as they can before pushing the bike into movement. They’re skidding out into the street as Dracs pile into vans to chase after them.

Cars honk and people scream as Poison begins to drive at break neck speeds in the center of the metropolis that is Battery City. BLi vans are hot on their tail, and they know Korse is in one of them, eagerly awaiting a slip up of Poison’s to exploit for his own game.

Poison wants to scream. They want to shriek curse words that have never ghosted through the ears of these civilians. They want to war whoop and scream like their crew would do during manic car chases through the desert. They want to shriek and shriek until their voice cracks, until they run out of gas, until the motor oil in their blood drains away.

Not a sound escapes their lips as they drive, and it only serves to infuriate Poison ever more as they move.

In a firefight, it doesn’t matter how good of a shot you are. Skill means nothing to the mistress of fate that over looks battlefields, and the god you should be praying to is the one of luck. Because all it takes is one lucky hit to destroy everything you have, to send the world crumbling before your eyes.

( _The shot to the neck isn’t loud. It isn't earth shattering. Poison doesn’t even hear the shot, just sees the bright light spark before an unholy pain bursts through their neck._

 _There’s not a single sound but the Girl’s gentle sniffles._ )

One lucky hit is all it takes.

Poison’s tires suddenly go spinning out from under them. A Drac happened to lean out of the window at just the right angle, at just the right time, at just the right distance. It’s all chance, a luck of the draw, for a Drac to ever make a hit on a person, but Poison’s bad luck beads seem to be attracting all sorts of bad luck.

Poison slams on the brakes as best they can, slowing down as much as they can before jumping off the bike. It skids down the street, causing cars to honk and people on the side walks to start shrieking before it finally slams into the side of a building. 

Poison winces as they hit the ground, feeling the gravel texture of the road slice into them like sandpaper. The Drac outfit gets ripped to shreds, and Party Poison is tugging at the remaining threads, undressing themself from that despicable costume.

There’s the crunching of footsteps, and this time, Poison doesn’t bother trying to run.

They pull themself to their feet and start a new firefight right in the center square of Battery City. It’s a moment they hope won’t be forgotten but the civilians watching, a moment they hope will mean something to someone long after it ends, likely with Poison’s spilled blood. It’s a moment that means something to them, at least.

Korse lingers on the edge of the firefight, just like alway. Korse never wants to do any of the dirty work himself, never wants to get a drop of ink on his frilly shirt. He’ll let others do all the grunt work before swooping in for the kill shot. Poison’s watched it happen thousands of times and experienced it only once themself.

( _The buzzing of electricity crescendos. Poison can’t tell if it's from Korse’s gun or the flickering of the lights or if it’s from the shots being fired. Poison doesn’t care._

_Korse’s eyes bore into Party Poison’s. They’re brown, like their own. They’re hollow._ ) 

Poison takes down as many Dracs as they can manage, splitting through the sea of white ice. They’re picking their way through towards Korse, hellbent on ending this fight with one of them dead. Poison isn’t going to let Korse take the glory of killing them, not again- no, they have to fucking earn this. 

Korse seems to realise he’s a magnet drawing in Poison. He stays on the edge for a while before deciding to join in. Korse’s blaster fires at Poison, and they manage to dodge most of the shots. A few singe their arms and grazes their legs, but they are barely even registering the pain anymore. 

They fire off round after round at Korse. There’s not much distance between them now, enough for Poison to see the sweat building on his creased brows, the wrinkles on his shirt. Poison can see all of Korse’s little faults, all his little blemishes, all the reasons why BLi will never think of him as perfect but will still use him as a tool for their personal game. 

Poison knows what it’s like to be used, knows what it means to be viewed as nothing but disposable plastic. Poison was just a pawn, and maybe they still are in this grand scheme of fate, pushed around by the claws of a higher being, but maybe they're not. 

Poison has no sympathy for Korse, however. At this point, Korse has chosen this life. Korse has made every mistake possible and does not seek to atone. Korse has slaughtered all of Poison’s friends in cold blood, slaughtered themself, and kidnapped the one thing they love more than anything in this entire god damned desert- the Girl. 

Poison fires and fires and fires. Ray bolts stream down on Korse and most manage to miss him. A few graze him, causing blood to drip down his skin, and Poison bathes in the sight like a shark about to go on a frenzy after smelling drawn blood. Korse can bleed, and Poison will make sure he chokes in his own blood like Poison did. 

( _They’re on the ground now. There’s so many fucking noises. There’s so many bright lights. Kobra Kid’s screams are bouncing across the halls, echoing eerily. They drown out the alarms and the sounds of shots and thumping electricity but they don’t drown out the gentle sobs of the Girl who stared them dead in the eye as they were shot._ ) 

They’re dancing with each other, just like they always did. Korse loves to pull them away from their friends during firefights, loves to isolate them and play this little game of cat and mouse. If Poison didn’t know any better, they’d think Korse enjoyed fighting them and watching them manage to win. 

Until they didn’t. 

“Something’s different about you,” Korse begins, placing a finger to his chin as he shoots. Poison dodges and shoots directly behind Korse, killing a Drac that has it’s blaster aimed for Poison’s head. There’s a lot of opponents to focus on and Poison’s trying to balance it out. 

Poison growls at Korse. It’s mangled and distressed and barely resembles the sound they want it to be. It’s small and pathetic. 

“Where’s your endless stream of pathetic chatter?” Korse almost appear exasperated. “Every time we fight, all you ever do is yell insults about my baldness. Where did that passion go?” 

Oh, that passion is still burning alright, more so than ever. 

Poison isn’t really sure they’ve ever _wanted_ to kill Korse. Poison knows they would, given the chance, and every other fight with him has been to the death. Poison would have killed him, knows they have the capacity and the will and the drive, but Poison wasn’t sure that when the time came to it, Poison would do it so willingly. 

Poison knows in this moment they would happily destroy Korse as violently as possible. 

Korse has stolen so fucking much from them. Jet Star and Ghoul are fucking dead because of him. Kobra Kid and the Girl are missing because of him. Party Poison died because of him. 

Korse has chipped away the very things that made Poison human. He has severed Poison’s ties to their soul, severed all the connections that stopped Poison from going off the deep end, destroyed the anchors that kept Poison tethered to their morals and their codes and their principals. 

Korse has snatched away everything that ever meaned something to Poison, and they feel like a hollow shell filled with the fires of rage. Their fury is imminent, blood will stain the soil beneath their feet, and Poison is going to cause as much destruction as possible in return. 

Korse has killed their friends. 

Poison’s going to do everything in their power to kill him right back. 

Poison surviving was going to be a mistake BLi will wish they had never made. 

“Come on,” Korse sing-songs. “Where are your wise cracks, your macho quips? Where’s your ever sharp wit? It’s almost boring not hearing you mock my every move.” 

There’s a thousand thoughts on the tip of Poison’s tongue. If Poison could speak, they’d let loose every word in their brain. Dams would burst and Poison would whisper and shout and scream and laugh. They’d make fun of Korse’s baldness, they’d curse him out for slaughtering their friends, they’d say stupid quips to mask the emotions they’re really feeling. 

( _Poison knows the taste of blood in their mouth better than Power Pup. From chronic nosebleeds from the dry heat of the desert to picking too many fights and ending up with too many broken noses. They know the taste of iron._ ) 

Party Poison used to be the face of a revolution. Used to be, because they’re dead. They raised an army to life with their voice, incited riots with a few well timed words, spoken truth into the hearts of hundreds and hundreds of killjoys. Poison’s connected people, helped people, destroyed people, enabled people- all with their voice. 

Poison is their voice. Their voice is them. 

Poison likes to talk, loves to talk. There are days where they can talk for hours on end, days where Jet Star tells them to shut up, where Kobra Kid turns up Mad Gear and the Missile Kid to drown them out, days where Ghoul just punches them for being too noisy, days where the Girl will fall asleep mid conversation. Poison talks, talks, talks. They fill up every silence that rings in their ears with their voice. 

Their voice is their mask. It spins lies like webs, cocooning themself into the image they and everybody else wants to see. They speak quips and they shout battle cries and they laugh at their own stupid jokes. They mock enemies mid fight, they idly chat up enemies while fist fighting, they even try to get a conversation going with the people who tried to mug them and Jet once. 

Poison uses their voice, all the time. For the gain of others, for the rebellion, for the succession, for the revolution. For themself, to use as something even better than the cheap clown mask resting across the bridge of their nose. 

Words have power. Actions speak louder, but words can have the impact a sucker punch to the nose can’t. Poison knows this well, knows that the propaganda within Battery City stems from this belief, too. 

Poison wants to scream at Korse, wants to shout, wants to laugh, They have the funniest fucking insult on the tip of their tongue and the only person who’s privy to it is them. They’re trapped in their own mind, which is an honest to god fate worse than death. Poison can’t talk if they’re a corpse, but at least they sure as hell can’t think, either. 

Korse smiles at them, and Poison bristles. “What happened. Party Poison? Why don’t you tell me exactly how you’re feeling?” 

Poison tries. They don’t have the words (they do, they _do_ ), but they have their fists and their blaster and they make do with what they have (with what they can _use_ ). 

( _The taste of blood pools in their mouth. It’s the only sensation they’re truly aware of as they tilt their head up while sliding down that wall. Korse leers over them, reveling in the kill he’s about to make, has already made, is making. Poison stares blankly at him, the taste of blood in their mouth growing._ ) 

The fight is quickly going Costa Rica. The odds weren’t ever in Poison’s favour, but they’ve worsened in just a few minutes. 

Dracs have caught up with ease to Poison’s location. There’s a swarm all around them, encircling them like wolves prepared to make the kill. Poison’s trying to fight Korse with a divided attention, and these wolves have blasters instead of teeth. It’s not a fair fight, and Poison knew it was never going to be, but it stings to see just how under prepared they are, how small they feel in this sea of white. 

Shots are no longer flat out missing them- they’re grazing them. Blood is dribbling down their side from a shot that almost landed. Their blue jacket is quickly getting fried from the amount of scorch marks adding up like tally marks. Patches of their body sting like they’ve been stung by a bee but a thousand times worse. 

They’re burning up, from rage, from the burns on their skin, from the sun beating down on them. 

A lucky shot strikes them in the knee. 

Poison stumbles, and it’s enough. 

Dracs make their move, moving like a hivemind of wasps. Another shot rips into their arm they’re shooting with. 

Your gun is the most important thing in a firefight, in this fucked up desert. Not your soul, not your boots, not your mask, not even you. Because that gun is going to keep you safe, or you’re going to die with it in your hand. You have to keep fighting, keep shooting, or you’ll end up a pile of bones crows will pick at for dinner. 

The gun drops out of Poison’s fingers from the impact. 

Another shot razes their ribs. Another shot slips through their leg. Another shot scorches their other shoulder. Another shot, another shot, another shot- 

Nothing’s fatal, but everything fucking aches. Dracs snatch their arms and Poison’s being restrained. There’s blood on Poison’s tongue from the sickening crack of their nose, from the fist of a Drac who managed to catch them in a moment of vulnerability. It drips down their lips, and iron pervades their senses. 

( _Poison’s tasted it before, countless times. But Poison’s never felt like they were drowning in it before._

_Poison’s vision is blurring. But the taste still burns, hotter and worse than the shot to their neck. It’s the only thing they’re aware of, other than the quiet whimpers of the Girl, who’s eyes Poison can feel on them as they slip, slip, slip, in this pool of blood…._ ) 

The Dracs have a tight hold on them. Poison kicks, flails, struggles, trying to move as best they can, trying to make their last few moments fucking mean something. 

People are gathered in the street. Other Dracs are trying to keep them from getting too close, trying to keep them from watching a live execution in the middle of the street. But the people are watching, and Poison hopes to god the fog from their eyes is lifting. 

Poison wishes they could scream some words that might help the people wake up. “Is this the corporation you serve? Is this your god? One who persecutes children in the streets? One who destroys your children, spilling their blood on the gravel beneath your feet?” 

But they can’t hear them. The people only watch. Poison hopes to god the actions here today speak louder than their unspoken words. 

Poison’s forcibly wrenched away from gazing at the people in the street. Korse has his fingers on their chin, forcing them to stare up at Korse only in the literal sense. A thousand suns burn within Poison’s core, and they hope they burn brightly enough that Korse can feel the heat of their rage. 

Korse tilts his head. 

( _Korse tilted his head, gazing into Poison’s eyes. His eyes are brown, like theirs. They’re much emptier._ ) 

“Not a single word?” Korse questions. “You come back from the dead and raise all this hell and not a single word?” 

Korse’s eyes drift, and Poison knows exactly what he sees. He lets go of their chin, and Poison tries to kick his knee, but a Drac beats them to it and kicks the back of their leg. Poison hides a wince and keeps their teeth tight. Not a sound can escape from their throat, anyway. 

Korse yanks down Poison’s jacket collar. There’s a split second where nothing happens, a strange calm before a storm. 

( _It’s so fucking quiet. There’s lazer fire squealing, footsteps pattering, screams echoing but Poison doesn’t hear any of it._

_The Girl sobs, gently._ ) 

Korse pauses. He reaches down and places a hand on Poison’s blaster shot. It hurts like all hell, tender and fragile, and when Korse moves his hand away, there’s blood staining his finger tips. Korse watches them for a moment before he bursts out laughing, the grating sound fraying at Poison’s nerves like the fire burning a fuse. 

“You’re mute, aren't you?” Korse’s laughter is barely contained. Korse grips their chin tight and forces them to make eyes contact. “The great, witty, chatty Party Poison whose voice has created riots with just their words, mute?” 

He pushes Poison’s head away, and Poison tries to growl at him. It’s staticy and pathetic. Korse chuckles at that, and Poison knows he’s getting some sick pleasure from this, watching Poison struggle for words and sounds. 

“Rendered mute by my own hand.” Korse crosses his arms, looking mighty damned pleased with himself. “There’s some poetry here in this. But I’m not here to analyse the poetic justice of you being silenced, literally.” 

( _Silence, silence. Nothing registering but the Girl just a few feet away, watching them slide down that wall in silent terror. Silence, silence._ ) 

“You know, it’s standard to simply Drac captured killjoys,” Korse hums. “Much easier than breaking their spirits and re-educating them into a citizen or other. So I suppose that’s what we ought to do. Aren’t you excited to become a mindless drone?” 

Poison can’t fucking speak. It grates them, because there’s so many witty comebacks they want to spit at him, so many curses. So they use their mouth, but they spit up a bit of blood at Korse. It feels nice at that moment. 

“Still trying to rebel? Don’t you realise you’ve lost everything?” 

( _A Drac mask is inches away from Poison’s face. Their mask keeps Korse from seeing how pale they've gotten at the sight. Korse still quirks his lips._

_“Are you ready to lose everything?”_ ) 

Korse sighs, almost pityingly, and that’s worse than anger. “Your friends are all dead. The Girl is, too. You have no voice. What will you become when we’ve taken from you almost everything?” 

Poison doesn’t respond. They can’t, they can’t command this conversation, they can’t humiliate Korse with his own words, they can’t make his face flush red with rage, the only emotion an exterminator is allowed to feel. It’s driving Poison absolutely mad, because the words are there, the quick rebuttal, just on their tongue. 

Poison turns their head away, refusing to look at Korse. Korse grabs their chin again and makes them look at him. Poison struggles against the arms keeping them in place. 

Korse laughs. “Don’t worry, we’ve dealt with mute killjoys before. We know how to get you to talk.” 

Korse glances at the Dracs keeping hold of Poison. “Well, I think we’ll use this miracle to our advantage. Party Poison is one of if not the most influential figures amongst those desert rats. Perhaps with a bit of torture, we could get some nice information out of them.” 

Korse talks like they’re not even there. “Re-education is typically a waste on killjoys like you. But who knows, you’re probably desolate enough. All of your friends dead, because of you, leading them on this suicide mission that only lead to you all falling like dominos, lead the to the slaughter of the Girl, and lead to the decimation of your pretty little voice. Oh, I think you’ll do very well.” 

“You’re going to make the perfect little toy soldier,” he muses, absently. “Good soldiers don’t talk back.” He turns his back to Poison and glances at the other Dracs. “Take them prisoner and head back to Battery City. I think the Director will be pleased with these turn of events. We'll get you re-educated in no time.” 

Korse glances back at Poison. There’s a slimy grin on his face, looking as black and putrited as the motor oil Ghoul liked to dye his hair with when they didn’t have enough money for proper hair dye. “Any last words?” 

It shouldn’t mean anything to them. It shouldn’t. It’s a meaningless jab, meant to make their blood curdle. 

But it works like a charm. 

( _”No last words?” Korse whispers through his teeth. The gun’s jammed against their neck. They can already taste blood on their tongue and they haven’t even been shot yet._ ) 

Korse laughs and spins on his heels. The Dracs push and pull on Poison. Shoving them out of the street and towards a white van. The people are moving, moving, becoming absorbed back into their daily lives. May this distraction, this disruption, prove to be the breaking point in someone's life. 

( _There’s a boy there, barely older than the Girl. He’s got eyes as blue as the mythical ocean. He watches silently, holding his mother’s hand as this stand off occurs mere feet away. His name is Val._ ) 

Poison gets shoved inside the van. A couple of Dracs sit next to them, pointedly keeping their guns out of their holsters. There’s handcuffs on Poison’s wrists, and while they try to fight the jewelry, there’s really only so much they can do. 

The van jumps to life. The Dracs don’t bother trying to search them for weapons. The blaster they stole was left behind. 

But Poison still has one ace up their sleeve. They keep their lips sealed, their face carefully blank. They slip their fingers into their left side pocket as discreetly as possible. Not a soul pays them any mind, though there’s not a single soul in that vehicle. 

The knife is still hot in their pocket. The blade presses into their thigh, a reminder of the one thing Poison has managed to keep as a surprise. It’s the only ace they have up their sleeve. It’s all they have, and they pray a soft prayer with their breath like how one uses a rosary. 

( _There’s a prayer on Poison’s lips when they see the Girl watching them, when they hit the ground. They reach out towards her, whispering one last word, one last command, one last prayer that only the Girl can hear in the crescendo of electricity and footsteps and screaming._ ) 

The Dracs pay no attention to them, chattering absently to themself in the front. 

They’ll use that knife to steal one of their guns. If they can pull the trigger quick enough, if they can fire enough shots at their fucking heart, they might be able to destroy one the precious internal organs BLi needs to be able to Drac a body. 

The blade sits in their hand. 

When the van hits a small pothole, Poison makes their move. 

( _”Run.”_ ) 

**Author's Note:**

> man idk


End file.
